


quizás, peut-être, vielleicht

by hannah_jpg



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 18:38:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19090810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/hannah_jpg
Summary: A wartime love story: there’s never enough time to say the things the heart speaks.





	quizás, peut-être, vielleicht

I. a letter

_Sergeant Barnes,_

_I've sent a replacement for Private Rothwell. Interpreters are getting hard to come by - I sent word to the London office but I was informed that all the male interpreters are already at the front. It's a woman or nothing._

_I was going to send this notice to Captain Rogers, but he's stupid around Agent Carter. At least you have your head screwed on straight._

_Regards,_

_Col. Philips_

Bucky finishes reading and glances up, through the thin trail of smoke from his cigarette to you, standing in front of him. You gaze back - unafraid, interestingly enough - and shift your weight.

"You brought a transmitter?" he asks.

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Good. Rothwell's was blown up with him."

You don't reply to that. Bucky realizes belatedly he probably shouldn't have said it - you're no soldier, and he's guessing you haven't seen much of war. Yet.

He can't help noticing how pretty your eyes are. Heck, all of you is pretty. Even though he hasn't seen a dame in five months or more, he thinks you'd be pretty in a crowded dance hall, too.

Bucky clears his throat, and takes the cig from between his lips.

"You volunteer for this?" he asks, rolling up the letter in his hand.

"Yes, Sergeant."

He eyes you beadily for a moment. "Why?"

A pause. "My husband was killed in the trenches," you say. Your tone is flat. Can't bear the grief? Never loved him anyway? Old wound?

It's none of his business. Bucky settles on something diplomatic. "I'm sorry to hear that." He tries to make his tone soft. "Where was it?"

"Arras."

Two years ago. Early in the war. Bucky frowns - he doesn't know why - and offers a condoling smile. "Well, welcome to the Howling Commandos," he says. "We have people from all over - we need an interpreter. 'Course, you'll be spying in transmissions…"

"Yes, sir," you say when his voice trails off.

"Private Tonks will get you the supplies you need," Bucky says briskly. "Um - if ya need anything else, you can tell me."

Another moment - you're studying him. Bucky straightens his posture - it's like his Ma looking him up and down. But you're young and pretty and there's a funny feeling in his chest.

"Thank you, Sergeant," you tell him, a half-second or half-hour later.

He watches the swish of your skirt as you leave the command tent, head cocked and about a thousand questions in his mind.

II. taking the piss

"Hi sugar, are you rationed?"

Bucky's head jerks up from cleaning his gun - brows creasing as he tilts his head to his left, where the voice had come from, he sees an identical frown on Steve's face across from him.

 **"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes,"** another voice says, and Bucky bristles as his temper flares. Shoving his gun back into ready-to-fire position, he leaps to his feet and turns about to face the scene. You, standing by the mess tent with a bundle of telegraphs - two privates peeking their heads out, goofy and stupid grins on their faces.

"Back off," he snarls, striding forward. "She ain't here for you, Wilson; Rutgers. Back to your posts."

The men grumble, and disappear with twin, _"Yes, Sergeant's."_ Bucky sucks in an angry breath, and his eyes fall on you. Your gaze is fastened on him - a little surly. Well, he's used to it. Not from a dame, though.

"Hey," he says, toning his voice down. "If anyone bothers you, you tell me."

"Sergeant, that's really not necessary - "

"The paperwork for a court martial is long and complicated, and I don't wanna be bothered," Bucky says. Not necessary to protect a dame from a coupla dumb fatheads? Yeah, right. Not that he can really have them court-martialed for chatting you up...he'd like to, though.

"C'mon," he says briskly, beckoning towards you. "Come sit with us."

Your eyes flicker to nearby firepit, where Steve and the others are cleaning weapons and choking down bad rations. A hesitation - and then you nod. Bucky turns to fall into step beside you.

"The Commandos are better than people think," he says, partially to comfort you, and partially to fill the silence. "Harsh on Germans, but nice to the womenfolk. They'll keep you out of harm's way, and if they don't - I'll fill 'em with daylight myself."

"I see."

Dum-Dum welcomes you into the group - you take a seat on an empty stool, and Bucky snags a place as close to you as he can manage. Which is across the firepit. He scowls.

"Do you know Peg Carter?" Dum-Dum asks you - well, roars it, really. Bucky snatches a glance at Steve - already blushing. Poor schmuck.

"I met her at Colonel Phillips' station," you say, and even though your voice is soft, it seems like every branch on every tree leans closer to hear. Or maybe that's just Bucky.

"Do you know," Dum-Dum drawls. "Captain America here is  _sweet_  on her."

You blink - glance at Steve - and clearly suppress a smile. "I really don't see how that's any of my business," you say serenely, turning back to Dum-Dum. "You see, I don't really care to gossip like an old biddy."

A startled, silent moment - and then Pinky  _roars_  with laughter, Dernier  _sniggers_  all clutching his side, Junior  _howls_ , and even Steve chuckles as Dum-Dum's face turns bright red. Bucky's eyes stay on you, a smile stealing over his face.

"Aw, fudge," Dum-Dum grumbles. "Didn't come here to have ya'll take the piss out on me."

"You deserve it!" Pinky wipes tears from his eyes.

Bucky notices, though he nearly wishes he hadn't - Steve mouthing  _"thank you"_  in your direction. You nod, and with an elbow on your knee and chin in your hand, go back to reading your telegraphs as general discussion turns towards giving Dum-Dum a hard time.

Absently he returns to cleaning his rifle, and watching the breeze flutter your curls.

III. no music

Restless, Bucky wanders the woods of somewhere in the south of France at twilight. Cigarette between his lips, hands in his pockets to keep from freezing, and gun on his shoulder.

He wonders, idly, if there will ever be a time he doesn't have a gun on his shoulder.

The camp is within shouting distance, but far enough that he feels he has some modicum of privacy for once. He revels in it, and ignores the thumping of his fidgeting heart. He's searching for something. Something he doesn't think he's gonna find out here.

There's a shack, he can see in the dim light. Between cracks in the door, he can see a golden light. Frowning, Bucky adjusts his course. Someone else looking for privacy? He pauses outside the door, flicks his cig on the ground and digs the heel of his boot into it, and knocks.

"Who is it?"

 _Your_  voice. Suddenly his heart is going a thousand miles an hour, and he doesn't know why.

"It's - Sergeant Barnes. Bucky." He'd been trying to get you to drop the formalities. Hasn't worked yet. Maybe it shouldn't.

"Come in, Sergeant."

The door rattles as he pushes through, prepared with a smile. Strangely, none of the usual things he says come to mind as he studies you - sitting at an old table, transmitter beeping and whirring next to a lantern. Your eyes are glittering, and questioning. Why had he come, again?

"There are some reports for the troops from Berlin," you explain, when he doesn't say anything. "Mostly about the Russian front, but I can still send the news back to Colonel Phillips."

"Good." Bucky's throat is dry. He's forgotten how to talk to a girl, hasn't he? It hurts. Forcing a grin and hoping it's half as successful as it had been on the girls of Brooklyn, he sticks his thumbs into his belt. "Ever listen to music on there?" he asks lightly. "I haven't heard a decent tune in months."

Your brows arch. "I'm not here to play music," you say, and is that a flicker of dimple in your cheek? "You might have brought your own radio, Sergeant."

"Doesn't matter," Bucky says with a shrug. "Not like there's a lotta dames out here to jive with, anyway."

A slow blink.

"I mean, except you," he says in a rush, and his face is hot. "But you're here to work, and - golly, I'm gonna make this worse, ain't I?"

You nod, a smile pressing your lips together. Bucky tries another method.

"Want a cig?" he asks, fishing a box from his pocket. "I've got spares. Not sure if you got any rationed - "

"No thank you, Sergeant," you say, and your eyes and attention are back on the notes you're taking. Shoot. A moment, and then you explain, "My uncle is a medical doctor. He reads a lot of journals - there have been experiments that show that cigarettes are bad for one's health."

Bucky pauses, cigarette halfway out of the tin, and then shoves it back in.

"If you wish to hear the news firsthand, you may sit," you say, without looking up. Bucky doesn't hesitate. He takes the rickety chair across from you, slouching lazily back as he watches your face. Your lips move as the voice on the radio drones on. Translating? Perhaps. Moments pass, and awkwardness pricks as his skin. He should say something; he doesn't know what -

"How'd ya learn all these languages?" he blurts.

You don't look up. "I studied."

Bucky has never felt more stupid in his life. His eyes travel across the planes of your face, down to your fingers curled around the pencil, scribbling away. There's no wedding ring. Unusual for a widow? He isn't sure.

"Do ya miss him? Your husband?"

Silence for a moment, and the tracest sigh from your lips. "I don't have time to."

"I don't mean to pester ya," Bucky adds after a moment, and you finally look up again.

"You're not pestering me," you say. "It's...nice not to be so alone."

That, he can understand. He offers a smile, which is barely returned, and you go back to your translating.

There will be no music. But suddenly, he doesn't need it.

IV. mist on a river

Perched ten-feet up in a tree, back to the scratchy bark and branch numbing his backside, Bucky chews on a toothpick as his eyes train on the far side of the river.

There are Germans there. Trying to cross and go deeper into France. It's his job - the entire company's job - to prevent that from happening.

It's a long night. No stars visible through the branches, and only the dimmest pearl-white shine from the crescent moon. A couple privates were trying to cross the river to spy; you were likely listening in on any enemy transmissions. He's not sure how many Germans there are; he can only hope there's enough men on this side.

Gunfire jerks Bucky awake sometime in the grey light of dawn. He rubs his bleary eyes and doesn't see any activity through the dark trees on the opposite bank. Maybe the Germans are doing some drills. Good waste of ammo, this close to the enemy. He blows warm breath into his chilled hands; even shoving one in his pockets at a time during the night to keep them from going entirely numb hasn't dulled the discomfort. His rifle is cold, his gloves thin.

A twig snaps behind him - he starts, jerking his head around - but it's  _you_ , approaching from the camp.

"Get down!" he hisses, waving a hand. "What are you doing here?"

Peering up at him, your brows pinch. "Delivering a message," you whisper up at him.

"Where's Private Tonks? He's supposed to be runnin' messages - "

"He  _is_ ; he's with Captain Rogers - Sergeant, the Germans are going to attack this morning before they get reinforcements - I got into their transmissions - "

Your words are cut short by rapid cracks of more gunfire - dirt flies in the air, nearly as high as Bucky - and as he cusses under his breath he turns back to the German camp. He can see a few snipers, up in the trees. They haven't seen him yet -

"Move!" he shouts down at you, leveling his rifle to his eyes. "Get outta here!"

The trigger is quick under his fingers. Mentally he counts under his breath the rounds the enemy has spent. As the echo of shots fade across the river, Bucky swings his legs over the branch and hops down to the ground. He can see ally soldiers running up from the camp, ready and taking positions in the defensive trenches, and -

You - half-hidden behind a tree - and Bucky staggers back, grabbing your hand.

Bullets pop at his feet, and yours too. None-too-gently he tosses you into a trench, sliding in as he feels something hot graze his leg - but ignoring it, he covers your head with an arm. A desperate attempt to shield your curled-up form from the horror.

He's breathing hard. He's not sure you're breathing at all.

"If you weren't so terrified I'd shout at ya," he growls into the shell of your ear. "Next time you have a message, send someone else, girl!"

Only a whimper, drowned out by gunfire and shouts. Dirt smears on your skirt, and there's another growl as Bucky wrenches away. Can't just lay there trying to be heroic - he snaps out the feet of his rifle, propping it up on the dirt shielding the trench,his teeth yanking off his gloves.

German uniforms are appearing out of the mist, not quite braving the river and for good reason - there are a dozen bodies bleeding out already, and Bucky adds more. Steve appears to his left - the idiot - charging straight for the river. Bucky cusses again, and covers him - aiming for the German snipers pointing their guns at Steve.

Steve might deserve to get shot, one of these days.

The pops of gunfire are slowing slightly. Shouts for medics, wailing cries of pain. About a dozen men are following Steve - Dernier, Pinky, Falsworth, and Dum-Dum in the rear. Bucky runs his fingers through his hair, heart still pounding fast. He's reasonably certain the Commandos will have the camp cleared out before the reinforcements arrive. That'll be a new problem - when it comes.

He swivels back to you. You haven't moved an inch - still huddled like a baby, hands pressed over your ears with your eyes squeezed shut, your lips moving rapidly. It makes his stomach twist with nausea and regret. Isn't this how your husband had died? In a trench?

Bucky slides further down, back to your side. There's a streak of dirt on your nose, splatters on your cheeks. Gently he lifts his hands, fingers curling around your wrists to tug them down.

"Hey," he says softly - well, not very softly. He has to be heard over the commotion. "Hey, it's over. We're okay."

Your eyes pop open. Ragged breaths fall from your chapped lips, and he watches your tongue attempts to moisten them.

"Sergeant, I'm sorry," you blurt. "I was just trying - I didn't think."

"Stop," Bucky commands, and your jaw snaps shut. Anyone else, he'd reprimand. But how can he do that? You're not even a soldier. But still...indecision and regret stalls him. Or maybe it's that your face is so close to his.

"Sergeant!" comes a bark, and he jolts away from you. A man salutes from outside the trench. "Three casualties, sir. Four wounded. Captain Rogers is across the river - "

"Yeah, I know. I gotta go save his ass. Take her back to her tent," Bucky says, rolling onto his feet. He doesn't dare look back at you - instead, he busies himself prepping his rifle. He can hear footsteps moving away, your shaking thanks to the private clearly offering you an arm.

He can't be distracted.

The rout is a success. The Commandos chased the Germans back to their nearest base, emptying their river camp and winning some grenades and some cheap brandy.

Bucky chews on a new toothpick and wanders through the camp with a bundle under his arms.

Your tent is quiet, but there's a golden glow from beneath the flaps. He clears his throat.

"Um - you up?" Immediately he wants to hit himself. Line up dozens of girls in Brooklyn and he'll charm every single one - but you in an army camp? Tongue-tied and stupid.

"Who is it?" your question is quick.

"Buc - er, Sergeant Barnes."

"Come in."

Bucky ducks through the flaps. You're sitting on your cot, wearing some loose clothes that must pass as pajamas. In the dim light of the lantern, you're stitching your stockings, torn in trench earlier.

"Here," he says briskly, holding out the bundle. "Found ya some things that'll serve better out here." You glance up, baffled. "I mean, it's nice to see a pretty dame in a skirt," Bucky adds, his face flushing hot. "But I, uh - trousers are smarter."

"Where'd you get them?"

The question startles him. "Well - I scrounged up some old things." Bucky doesn't dare mention these trousers and button-down are  _his_  spares. "Might have to roll 'em up a bit," he says, as you accept the clothes from him.

"Thank you," you say quietly, running your fingers on the rough weave. Bucky swallows, and your eyes flit to his again. "I'm sorry for earlier, Sergeant," you tell him. "You needed to be told, and Tonks - "

"'S fine," Bucky interrupts. "Just - terrified me out of my wits. If the camp interpreter is killed, Colonel Philips is gonna have my head."

A little giggle, the smallest smile. Satisfaction blooms in his chest, and Bucky is suddenly able to smile.

"We're gonna march west as soon as the official orders come in," he says briskly, to disguise how warm he's feeling.

Your head dips in a nod, smile still there. "Yes, Sergeant."

A pause. "Good night."

"Good night, Sergeant."

And Bucky has to exert all his self-will not to be whistling around the camp like a dolly dizzy schoolboy.

V. bluebells under combat boots

That spring is slow to arrive, but when it does - Mother Nature seems to be trying to make up for the extra weeks of harsh chill she'd inflicted on the Allies. Sunshine warms the camps in the afternoons, and then the mornings, and finally Bucky rolls up his coat and shoves it in the bottom of his pack.

"Here." A voice stops him in the middle of buckling his pack - glancing up, he sees you standing slightly to the side of him, face haloed by the dawn light. Your expression is...soft. Heat stealing across his face, Bucky just blinks stupidly. Then you shake your hand, and his eyes dart down to see that you're holding something out to him. A...flower?

"It's lavender," you explain patiently. "Found some wild stuff growing around here. It'll make your coat smell nicer, for a while at least. Maybe 'till fall, if you have enough."

"You're gonna need more than that flimsy thing if you want Barnes to start smelling sweet!" Dum-Dum shouts. Then he roars with laughter at his own joke, and Bucky is sure his face could fry an egg. He forces a smile for you, reaching out to accept the lavender. For the briefest moment, his dirty fingers brush against yours - looking extra filthy. He glances back up, his smile strained.

"Thanks," he says, and your responding smile is as sweet as the whiff of lavender.

You turn and walk away, head slightly down, and disappear behind a tent.

"Aww, Barnes! Think she might be sweet on you." Dum-Dum's elbow digs into Bucky's side. With a scowl, Bucky shoves back. He gently tucks the lavender between the blue folds of his coat.

"Well, thanks to  _you_ ," he snarks. "Why ya gotta be such a pisshead, Dummy?"

"Gotta let the girl know what she's gettin' into." Dum-Dum's red face is split in a winning smile - Bucky just shakes his head, and heaves his pack over his shoulder. "Maybe you should do something about that," Dum-Dum adds. "Otherwise some other schmuck is gonna pick her up. She's a real dish."

"Shut up, Dum-Dum."

"Don't say I didn't warn ya."

Three evenings later, a scout comes in talking about French refugees fleeing from a destroyed village. Partially desperate for news and mostly eager to help - they start trudging through the forest to find the refugees.

Bucky lags behind, bored of camp, but his eyes find your back as you talk swiftly to Steve, ahead.

He rests an elbow on his rifle, just in case. Could be a trap. Not that it seems likely, if the scout hadn't seen anything suspicious. Moseying on, his eyes are drawn by the spread of wildflowers on the forest floor. There isn't much left; trodden under muddy boots of a few dozen soldiers, foot-shaped prints crush the delicate plants. It smells nice at least.

Bucky remembers the lavender. And Dum-Dum's dumb advice.

He pauses at a thick patch of bluebells, sheltered in the crooked roots of a massive oak tree. Gnawing his lip for a moment, wishing for a cig - Bucky makes up his mind. He bends over, and plucks the biggest, brightest strand of bluebells. He worries it between his fingers as he steps again through the forest, the burgeoning sounds of a group of women and children reaching his ears. It twists his stomach in all sorts of nauseating ways; the voices sound like his ma, his sisters - except they're in French.

Stepping into a glade, he's not surprised to see you jabbering away to a group of wide-eyed and terrified women. Steve is attempting some of his awful French on an older woman, and Bucky snorts to himself.

He strolls up and down the cavalcade, eyeing with disfavor the hand-pulled carts and wagons filled with a scattering assortment of junk and half-rotten food. Some of the soldiers are trying out their French, too. Dernier is having the most luck, and Bucky snorts again.

When he's made his round, satisfied there are no hidden Germans anywhere, Bucky's jaw nearly drops as you come into view again. Head bowed, a soft smile on your face - there's a  _baby_ in your arms. A baby wrapped in a flower print quilt, cooing, with a tiny fist waving in the air. A woman - must be its mother - is sitting on the edge of one of the carts, a bandage around her head as she wipes tears from her face.

Your murmurs in French settle the baby. Bucky can't stop his feet from moving him towards the mesmerizing sight, enraptured by  _you_ , ragged and dirty and never as pretty as you were smiling as a baby. The baby's fist catches your finger, squeezing.

A branch cracks under his boot - staring, Bucky stops,. He can only swallow as your gaze lifts, meeting his warmly.

"Sergeant," you say softly. "Come here. I need to find a change of nappies - you hold the baby."

"Um - what?" Is all Bucky manages to say before he finds the bundle forced in his arms. Instinctively he clutches it, blinking down, all startled, at the baby. She's smiling a toothless smile, her blue eyes crinkles at the corners. Gee, she looks so much like Becca had...Bucky swallows a sudden lodge in his throat. "Hey, I can't just - " he starts, glancing up for you - but you're gone. And the mother watching on is still crying.

Oh, boy.

Not daring to look around - he does not need to be snickered at by any privates - Bucky turns his back to the woods, swaying the baby in his arms as he tries to ignore the thick feeling in his throat. It's been years since he'd held a baby; not since Mrs. McGuffy next door had had twins.

When you appear from behind the cart again, arms filled with clothes and supplies, his throat closes over entirely. There's a brightness in your eyes, a smile on your face - unusual. But beautiful. You speak to the mother of the baby in gentle tones, placing the goods beside her on the cart. The mother nods along to your melodic voice. Bucky is staring. And still is - when you return to his side.

"Thank you," you say primly, and nudging your arms over his, you slide the baby back to your chest. His arms feel empty and cold all of a sudden - and the wistful twist in his heart deepens into shattering territory as you turn away. The bluebells are still in his hand, hanging limply. Absently he tucks them into a pocket of his buttoned shirt.

The baby is returned to her mother and a makeshift camp is set up in the purple twilight, and soldiers stationed for protection. It's dark when Bucky finally meanders back to camp, still unsettled from something he can't quite put his finger on -

You stroll up beside him, startling him. "May I send a message so that these refugees will be found by the right people, Sergeant?" you ask. Your eyes still have a sliver of that warm brightness, even in the night. Bucky gives a curt nod.

"Sure. Yeah, of course."

Silence. You stay with him, matching his steps, although your gaze settles on the ground in front of your feet.

"Hey," Bucky blurts after a moment. "I, um - thought of ya - "

He yanks the bluebells out of his pocket. Wrinkled. Limp. Just plain sad. He frowns - but the surprise of your sudden giggle stalls his disappointment in himself.

"Thank you, Sergeant," you say sweetly, and your fingers close over the stem, and over his fingers.

The flowers might be dead, but his heart blooms.

VI. moonlight

It's a cold night; a clear night. The nearest Germans are three miles away, and according to their transmissions, staying put for the next several days while they wait for supplies. Steve is huddled in his tent, preparing a plan to strike the camp and supplies before they meet - with Peggy, newly arrived from wherever Colonel Phillips has been keeping her. Not that they'll be seen for a while.

So Bucky is left with the rest of the Commandos, enjoying their night off around a blazing fire, confident and eager to make the most of the temporary rest. Still, his rifle is propped up between his legs.

There's singing and some pilfered gin - and more singing. Even Bucky is caught up in it, roaring with laughter at Dum-Dum's dumb jokes - until silence falls over the group and a laugh stalls in his throat.

You're walking by. Eyes averted. But Dernier jumps to his feel bowing a silly bow and you pause, blinking at him.

"Mademoiselle! Pourrais-je avoir cette danse? La lune brille et je dois absolument danser ou bien je mourrais!"

Bucky snorts to himself - Dernier has had more gin than anyone else, and Dum-Dum is outright sniggering. But the joke is on them - as Dernier offers a hand, you give a little curtsey and the tiniest smile, and he exclaims something else in French. And then he starts singing, and swinging you around.

_La pendule fait tic tac tic tac_

_Les oiseaux du lac font pic pic pic pic_

_Glou glou glou font tous les dindons_

_Et la jolie cloche ding din don..._

Falsworth starts clapping along, keeping the beat of Dernier's rich voice, and Pinky is just staring in envy. Bucky's smile feels forced - but he's distracted by the delight in your eyes. It's very pretty - you, not Dernier - and absently he taps a finger on the barrel of his rifle, cocking his head to the side.

The dance gets wilder, you're spun out further and Dernier's voice louder - then it dissolves into giggles, and Dernier pretends to faint, but you catch him by the elbow just in time.

"Tout va bien, monsieur Dernier?" you ask breathlessly, hauling him back up with a smile.

"Ah, oui, oui!" But Dernier is sweating, and he waves you away, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at his forehead. Junior is laughing with Dum-Dum.

"Merci, monsieur," you say, clearing your throat. "J'ai apprécié la danse. J'ignorais que vous dansiez si bien!"

Dernier giggles - and gives another silly bow. "Une jolie dame me donne toujours la grâce d'un papillon!"

Bucky could drink in the sight of your smile all day long, and all night, too. Your eyes flit around the campfire, at everyone in turn - but on him, your gaze drops. Shifting, you steady your breath and blurt, "It's late - good night."

A chorus of replies. Bucky stands.

"I'll walk ya back to your tent. Make sure Dernier doesn't follow you."

Laughs for Dernier's sake. Your eyes stay on Bucky, and he swings his rifle over his shoulder and walks around the backs of the men to your side. You've clasped your hands together, eyeing him warily - but Bucky just offers a polite nod, and stays at your side as you start to wander away.

Laughter and more singing fade behind him. Just the crunch of footsteps on underbrush. The air is cooler away from the fires.

"Thank you, Sergeant Barnes," you break the silence, "It is kind of you to walk me back."

"Old habit," Bucky shrugs, tucking his thumbs in his pockets. "Isn't right to leave a dame to walk home alone. We've been doing ya wrong."

"No, it's quite alright," you hurry to say. "I'm just another person serving my country out here, Sergeant. No special treatment."

Bucky grunts, but doesn't agree.

"Dernier is a sweet gentleman," you muse a moment later.

Bucky grunts again. "Yeah. Swell."

"Do you disapprove of dancing, Sergeant?" you ask, voice a little harder now, and he blinks up in surprise to see a frown on your face.

"Not at all, sweethe - er, not at all, ma'am," Bucky says, and his face is burning. "Loved to dance, back in Brooklyn. 'S tough bein' out here. You should take whatever enjoyment ya get."

The answer seems to satisfy you - the frown fades. Nearly to your tent now, and Bucky's heart is skipping odd beats.

"Thank you again," you say, pausing outside the flaps. With only the moonlight streaking through the canopy of trees above, Bucky can't see your expression terribly well - but he'd like to. Gnawing his lip for an uncertain moment, he reaches up to tilt your chin slightly. Your eyes are glowing beautifully, staring back at his scrutiny.

"'S no problem," he says roughly, his hand dropping. "Um - if you need anything - "

"I'll tell you," you finish, with the barest hint of a smile. Bucky chuckles, digging the heel of his boot in the dirt. Aw, fudge it all. You wouldn't still be out here with him if you didn't want to be - at least, that's his desperate hope - and so he reaches up again, this time to clasp your face in his hands, and he leans down to plant a kiss on your surprised lips. Finally.

"There," he rasps. "Now I don't hafta think about ya anymore."

"Sergeant, I - "

"Sorry." It's a mutter under his breath, and with your taste still on his lips, not daring to look back at your lone figure, Bucky grumbles his way back to the campfire.

VII. mess tent

Since the night had been filled with gunfire and blood, everyone in the camp rose late the next day, weary and wan, and too sober to speak.

Bucky is sure he laid in his cot for at least five hours, but can't remember falling asleep even for a moment. His mind is fried and stale, and the sensation of the rifle strap in his shoulder cuts into his shoulder even through his coat. He trudges across muddy grass to the mess tent. Can't smell breakfast. It's still just blood that tickles his nose.

The privates giving out rations are quiet. One has a bandage over his face. Bucky offers a nod, and no words of comfort.

Most everyone must still be sleeping, or busy elsewhere - the makeshift stools and tables are nearly empty. A few soldiers in one corner, and in the other - you.

Bucky takes a deep breath, and strides forward.

You glance up when he comes to a stop in front of you. There's a fork twirling in your fingers, which appear to be shaking. Bucky frowns. He'd thought you'd stayed out of the way of the fighting last night…

"Good morning, Sergeant," you say, and your tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Bucky blinks stupidly. Suddenly it's the thought of a kiss in the moonlight freezing his brains.

"Can I sit here?" he blurts. You blink back, and nod.

The stool is hard. He doesn't notice. He's busy watching your lashes flutter on your lovely cheeks as you lower your gaze. Looking away from him? That's not good.

"Hey, you okay?" Bucky asks, a little more roughly than he intended.

"Of course." Finally, you glance back up, and he offers a smile. It feels timid - and your returning smile is just as wan. But it's a smile, and it's beautiful, no matter how forced. His breakfast is getting cold. "Was it very bad last night?" you ask quietly, and his skin prickles.

"Nah, not too bad. We got the Germans worse than they got us. Thanks to that message you intercepted."

You press your lips together. Bucky chews on something without noticing what it is. "I wish I'd heard it sooner," you confess in a low voice.

"Couldn't've. They didn't send it earlier. We don't have ya here to read minds, sweetheart!" Bucky teases without even thinking about it. He coughs slightly as your lips twitch.

"Is that your way of telling me I expect too much of myself, Sergeant?" you ask lightly.

"Guess so."

Another smile is exchanged - much more genuine now, and Bucky can feel how hot his ears are. Even his blood feels like it's simmering hot. Golly, he wants to kiss you again - anyone else be damned - but after that flickering moment of tension you drop your gaze again, and the connection breaks.

But it had been there. It  _had_.

VIII: french lessons

A formative memory of Bucky's can be traced to one night in Paris. He had turned a corner in a pub and seen a private's head under a girl's skirts - embarrassed, he had turned and rushed away - but not before the image of the girl's parted red lips, rapturous expression burned itself in his memory. A memory he revisited from time to time, like the perverted secret it was, until he could hear his ma's sharp reprimand.

Bucky had always thought of himself as the toast of the town; King of the Brooklyn Streets. Time in the army only showed him how green he is. The idea of making a girl moan and squirm with his head beneath her skirts taunts him; entices him. He  _wants_  it. He wants to forget the blood and the gunshots and the smoke - he wants to hear high-pitched moans until there's nothing left in his brain, his ears - except  _her_.

It's been a lonely few days, he guesses, since he can't get that girl off his mind. Not that night. Or the next one. Or the next night after that.

Back against a cold tree, unlit cig between his lips - Bucky methodically goes through the motions of cleaning his gun. The Howlies are singing by the fire, some traded brandy being passed around. He considers making a grab for some - might dull his ache - but he doesn't want a hangover so close to the enemy.

"Kinda feel like some dancin'," Pinky says, rolling his shoulders back. "Any of those pretty French girls around?"

"Nah, they took one look at your mug and scampered," Dum-Dum laughs. A frown drags at Bucky's lips as he loads his rifle with brisk motions, putting everything back in place.

"Where's our girl, then?" Pinky looks around, as if expecting you to pop up from behind a tree. Bucky's frown turns into a scowl.

"She's off listening for German reports," Junior says, swigging some gin. "Think she set up in the old coop by the farmhouse."

Dum-Dum roars with laughter. "The hen is in the henhouse! The hen is in the henhouse!"

Bucky surges to his feet, face prickling with heat as he slings his rifle over his shoulder. He's not quite sure why it's so funny - at least, he's not really willing to think about it, but a few steps take him away from the fire, and through the garden.

The grounds near the devastated house are dark and lifeless. Silence, but no peace. Not here.

His boots crunch on broken glass. One turn, and he can see the little chicken coop - a single, golden light bleeding through the cracks.

Why is his heart racing?

A barely-there strain of radio static, garbled in a language he doesn't understand. The slightest sigh -  _your_  sigh - and Bucky lifts a knuckle to tap once on the rough wooden door.

"Who is it?" your voice is quiet.

"Bucky."

A tense silence, beneath the radio. Then, "Come in, Sergeant."

Bucky pushes through. He blinks - your face is haloed in the lantern light, very prettily so, and the little smile on your face is almost genuine. You're sitting on a stool, bent over another stool where the radio is wobbling. Pulling the headset down from your ears, you wait expectantly.

Bucky has no words, but everything to say.

"There's no news," you say at last, to his silence. "If you want to listen in, you may."

"Er - thanks." That's something, right? Bucky kicks over another stool, across the radio from you, and plops himself down.

For a chicken coop, it must have been abandoned long ago. It doesn't stink like livestock. Only two feet away from you, he can just smell  _you_.

Slowly you lift the headset back to its place, your eyes never leaving his. There's something in your expression… some tension, maybe. Bucky clenches his jaw.

"They're discussing the gossip from Berlin," you whisper after a moment. "And rumors of the Russians cutting around…"

Bucky is staring. Not really listening.

"Do...you want to listen in?" you ask softly, gesturing to the headset.

"I won't understand a word." Bucky gives a short, hollow laugh - but he's already scooting his stool closer to yours, rifle banging awkwardly against the wood. With nimble fingers, you hold up the headset between him and you - Bucky leans close with a concentrated frown.

Staticky German. And your eyes - so damn lovely. He can't look away. Except to look at your lips, which are wet as your tongue darts out to lick them. His gaze flickers back up into your eyes - you're staring at him  _back_.

Without thinking (he hasn't thought much at all, lately - since that night in the moonlight he'd kissed you the first time), Bucky is leaning forward - sooner than he expected, your lips are there to meet his; sweet and soft and sinful - heat shoots through his veins faster than any shrapnel, and suddenly his hand is cupping your face, and your lips are parting -

The headset clatters to the floor.

Your hands are there; on his shoulders, tangling in his hair, your stool squeaking as you half-throw yourself at him. If Bucky's brain was working, he'd think of how startling and wonderful it is to hold you in his arms - but for now, he'll just focus on your taste, thanks.

His lips move to your jaw, your neck - as his fingers comb through your mussed hair, his heart pounding out of control - he feels the vibrations of a little moan from your throat, all the way from his head to his toes and  _everywhere_ in between.

"I want you so bad," he mumbles, dragging his nose back up to your ear for a nibble. " _So_  bad. I want you like a man wants his wife - creepers - you're gonna burn me alive, sweetheart."

Your fingers are tight around his collar, keeping him close. Then, so quietly that he might have imagined it in his desperate delirium, you breathe out:

"I want you back."

Bucky's knees fall to the floor, and he's dragging your knees around his waist. You pitch forward, lips finding his again as he kicks his stool out of the way - and shoves yours to the side. He can feel your heat against his belly.

Clumsily, hastily - he lays you on the rough planked floor, feeling all wrapped up cozy between your arms and legs. He could  _live_  there, if he was given the chance.

A shuddering moan on your lips, and instinctively Bucky pushes his hips against yours - it feels so  _right_ , even with the layers of clothes providing a roadblock. If you two weren't in a henhouse - if the Commandos weren't nearby - if there wasn't a war going on - if he could love you in a feather bed in some swanky London hotel like you deserve -

But no.

But that's not gonna stop him from hearing more of those pretty sighs, either.

A few more kisses on your throat, down the skewed buttons of your blouse. Then Bucky scoots back on his heels, and keeping his eyes fastened on yours - dark and hooded, and  _burning_  - he fumbles with the buttons on your trousers.

"We can't," you whisper, but your hands on his wrists don't stop him.

"I can make ya feel good," Bucky promises, his voice scratching in his throat. Your eyes flutter, half-closing, as if the very words of promise pleasure you. "So good," he adds, as your fingers tighten, and he shimmies your trousers down over your hips. "If ya let me, sweetheart. Let me, please. I need to hear ya sing."

Lowering himself on his elbows, his hands trace over silk panties, half-shaking in anticipation and  _want_. Dizzy lust, and from your clammy hands roving to his cheeks, and into his hair - maybe he's not the only one. You haven't said no. But you haven't said yes, either.

"Come on," he whispers roughly, hooking a fingers inside your underwear. "Let me taste ya, sugar. I wanna know how sweet ya are. I wanna make ya sigh to the moon, darlin'…"

"B - Bucky… _please_..."

No Sergeant, tonight. But  _begging_. For him. So perfect and softly and pretty - wanting  _him._  Bucky sucks in a heady, ragged breath - gee whiz, you're  _everywhere_  around him, and he couldn't stop even if he tried -

His fingers crawl up to the waistband of your panties, even as your thighs quiver around him. He can barely  _breathe,_ the anticipation is too much - sliding the silk down your soft legs, Bucky lets out a groan, and you whimper.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs to the apex of your legs, though his eyes dart up to your face - barely visible in the shadows - but  _rapturous_  and yearning - bottom lip caught between your teeth, eyes fluttering closed - fingers clamped in white-knuckled fists -

"Bucky," you sigh again. "Bucky,  _please_  - "

"You don't have to beg, darling," Bucky nuzzles his nose into the soft skin of your thigh, so damn close. "I got ya. I got ya right here where you're safe…"

Your fingers unclench from their fists, running through Bucky's filthy hair and giving a tug that causes hot goosebumps to cover his body - he's as hard as a rock, he is, and your response is only making him throb harder. Another deep breath - he regards his prize, and dives in.

Your strangled moan nearly shakes the henhouse.

So  _sweet_ and salty and satisfying - better than he had ever dreamed, since that night in Paris. The way your legs are trembling around him, your shaking hands in his hair, the way your back arches, pressing your core closer to his mouth - Bucky is in serious danger of shooting the moon right in his pants. Everything is sloppy. He can feel dribbles down his chin, but he doesn't care.

His hands snake around your hips, pushing your legs open further - totally limp, you're exposed to him. Bucky glances up, drinking in the sight of your smooth throat, your parted lips, the heaving breaths rising and falling your breasts. His tongue is beginning to ache, his lips smarting - doesn't care about that, either. He tugs out a hand, and it crawls up to fondle a breast. Immediately one of your hands flies up to cover his - a bit clammy, and another cry falls from your lips and is carried into the night.

"Baby," Bucky says hoarsely, lifting his head slightly. He needs a break. "You're so delicious. I could get down on ya all night long, 'n all day, too."

"B - Bucky…" Your whine is soft, and so damn sultry he can feel his hard-on twitch painfully.

"Ya don't gotta say nothing sugar," his voice rasps. "I just - you're so beautiful." Bucky's babbling, and he knows it. Maybe you know it, too - but from the way you're squirming beneath him, you probably don't care.

That's enough of a breath.

The beautifully pink, lush skin of your most intimate parts is swollen and flushed. He licks and sucks and nibbles for all he's worth, the heels of your boots pressing into his back. The heat in him is building with the volume of your ragged breaths - sweat stings across his skin, beneath his coat. His pants are getting extra tight, massively uncomfortable, and he shifts his hips slightly to relieve some pressure. No good - the friction against the hard floor even through the thick material of his pants is too much. Grunting into you, Bucky nearly feels the breath knocked out of him for the sensitivity.

Your desperate breaths turn to a high-keening moan - under his mouth, you're positively quivering, and Bucky keeps going as you stiffen - the surge of sweet brine coating his tongue, your fingers tugging his hair set him over the edge. He  _hurts_  so bad in his pants -

"Bucky…" His name is a beautiful whine on your lips. Wiping his chin on his sleeve, pulling back up your panties to cover your modesty, Bucky props himself back onto his elbows, peering over your flushed face. Eyes flutter open, peering into his with a thousand emotions surging into him, into his chest, where he can feel the tightening of some sort of ribbon around his heart, connecting him to you.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"Sorry, sweetheart?" Bucky can't help grinning, and leans over to kiss the tip of your nose. A smile feels so foreign and strange and utterly disarming - he just loves the way your eyes are glittering.

"I shouldn't have - " you murmur, and with what feels like a punch to the gut, he realizes the glitter are tears.

"Not your fault, sweetheart," he says roughly. "Mine. I'm sorry."

"No, Bucky, I - " Your words stall, and Bucky stares at your lips as your tongue darts out to wet them.

"I don't expect nothing from ya," he rasps. "Don't - don't think ya gotta do nothing - "

"You should go."

It feels like a mortar shell, exploding in his stomach. Bucky nods numbly - what choice does he have? - and he crawls off of you, averting his eyes as you tug back up your trousers. He has to adjust himself somewhat - no good walking around camp the way he is - and as soon as you're modest again, he leaves the henhouse.

Does he imagine the sigh that follows him out?

IX. radio static

Bucky lies on his back, cot rough and hard, as he stares at the rough canvas ceiling of his tent. Distantly he can hear jabber from around the campfires; Steve is on watch tonight, and if Bucky were feeling less moody he might regret it. Some distracting chatter with Steve would do wonders.

It's still warm, despite that the sun has gone down hours ago. Wearing only a tank top and trousers, Bucky itches the scratchy sweat on his shoulder, frowning.

What can his misery be blamed on, tonight?

There are shuffling footsteps outside. Bucky sighs, but the voice that calls out isn't the one he expected -

"Sergeant?"

It's you. Lifting his head in surprise, he barks, "Come in!"

The flap lifts, and your wan face peers inside. A hesitating moment - as if you're steeling yourself - and you step inside, radio in hand. The flaps close behind you. If Bucky isn't mistaken, you're glowing in the dim lantern light -

He starts to sit up, propped up on one elbow, but you speak fast.

"No - don't," you say, a little breathlessly. "Just - need to...listen in for some news. Can - can I? Here?"

Bucky blinks. He has  _no_  idea what's going on. He hesitates, too.

"Sure," he says with a shrug. "Not that I'm gonna understand a word of it. I never do."

Slowly you set the radio down in the narrow space between the cots. Your fingers are shaking - how strange. Bucky eyes you skeptically as you flip the switch, and the tent fills with static. Bent over, you swivel a few dials. Then it's French, chattering away fluidly, and you straighten.

Your eyes are intently fastened on Bucky's face. He doesn't fully understand your expression - but he'd like to.

"Bucky," you whisper, and every hair on his body seems to stand on end. No 'Sergeant?'

"Whaddya need?" he whispers back, voice drowned out by the French.

But you don't say anything - gnawing your bottom lip between your teeth, your fingers lift to start undoing the buttons of your blouse. Bucky nearly  _chokes_  - his blood is rushing so fast he can barely get a noise out -

"Darling," he breathes, eyes wide. "You - "

"I need you, Bucky," is the soft reply from your lips. "Please. I - I wouldn't ask, but - "

"You don't have to ask," Bucky says, and he reaches out to clasp one of your clammy hands in his. He's trying not to look at the smooth skin between the fluttering hems of your blouse. "I'd do anything for ya, sweetheart. Anything."

A small smile. Then you shake his hand off, and squirm out of your blouse. Not shy, evidently. But hasty.

Bucky's throat is dry.

Luckily the radio is so loud, because he lets out an honest groan when you've shimmed out of your trousers and underwear. Oh - right - you'd probably brought the radio on purpose. To get into his tent, to keep it from looking suspicious.

Your fingers shake on his belt, and Bucky hurries to help, dragging his trousers down over his hips to discard with impunity. He'd feel less hot - if you weren't bent over him, your luxurious skin about three inches from his mouth. He tries to sit up, but your hand pushes on his chest, back down.

Yeah, he's not feeling very clever.

His eyes are riveted by yours, glinting with hot and heady emotions as you climb over his hips - Bucky is twitching, unsure of how long he's gonna last with you looking at him like you wanna eat him up, like you're about to unravel him to his barest soul and drink the dregs -

 _Quiet. Keep quiet._  Bucky's lips part in a soundless moan as his fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs. You move slowly at first, taking him in until he's panting and the blood is rushing in his ears. Your hair has come loose a little bit, sweat beating on your brow - Bucky licks his lips, and you set a rhythm as his hands begin to rove. The curve of your waist, your breasts, your throat and jaw. He watches hungrily as your eyes flutter closed, the little sucks of breath from your lips making rivets of heat to pool deep in his bones.

Everything is tight and electric, and Bucky isn't sure  _how_  he can keep quiet - except that he has to - even with your curves glowing in the lantern light, your hair shining. The obnoxious static of the radio drones on, drowning out the little sigh as you clench around him, freezing in place as your head lolls, and you've never been more beautiful.

As he's admiring you, his climax takes him by surprise - a little grunt, and  _horror_ \- he hadn't pulled out. Hissing, Bucky tries to dislodge you from your perch, but your eyes open again - leaning down over his face, so that he can taste your sweet breath, a whisper in the shell of his ear -

"Shh. It's okay."

So he stays where he is. His fingers trace up your bare back, the soft skin trailing like the softest silk underneath his touch, then in your hair.

"You sure, darling?" Bucky murmurs back.

"I was married for three years, and I am childless."

" - Oh."

Your words rattle about in his head, awkwardness now lost in the moment - the curve of your lips as a smile creeps up, the sparkle in your eyes. It's easily the most vulnerable Bucky has ever seen you and his heart swells to be so privileged. He traces the planes of your pretty face, returning your smile even as he tries not to laugh.

Not that it's funny - because it's not. But his heart feels lighter than it has in months.

The moment doesn't last.

Reluctantly - at least, he thinks it's reluctant - you climb off, dressing slowly in the dim light as Bucky tugs back on his trousers. Your back is to him, but it doesn't stop him from drinking in your presence, just having you near.

"Thank you," you say softly, as your bare shoulders are covered by your blouse. "I - well, I know it wasn't right of me - "

"Don't start that, sugar," Bucky warns. "If you're lonely, I'd rather ya came to me than anyone else."

You glance back over your shoulder, a little smirk dimpling your cheeks. "Jealous?" you ask lightly.

"I know soldiers that have lied about being married to get with a girl," he says frankly. "Or they get sick satisfaction outta making their girls cry. You deserve better than that, sweetheart."

A slow blink obscures your lovely eyes, and then you look back at him. "I'd rather have you than anyone else, too." The words are shy, but Bucky's heart takes wings.

When you're dressed again, you sit beside him on his cot - Bucky glances over with a slanted smile, perched on the edge. You open your mouth, pause with your brows pinching, and then say quickly, "I  _am_ lonely. I - you've been so kind to me." Then you lean forward, and there's a sweet kiss on his lips before you turn quickly away.

Several minutes pass in silence; Bucky wringing his hands, his thigh touching yours, as you listen - or pretend to - to the transmission.

"Nothing," you say at last, and switch off the reciever. Silence. Too much of it. Then, "Good night, Sergeant."

"Yeah - 'night."

Your scent is still in his tent long after you leave - and Bucky sits, motionless, for a very long time.

X. dizzy

Next time it's in an abandoned barn about forty miles southeast. You'd left the camp to set up somewhere more quiet. There's more pilfered wine going around - Bucky is beginning to suspect Dernier has a supplier set up somewhere. You'd passed Bucky by the fire, eyes flickering to him over the bright flames for an infinitesimal moment. He'd imagined, hoped - that they were saying, " _Come with me._ "

He waits a half hour. For the wine to get low, for his friends to pay less attention. Then, finally, Bucky makes a roundabout trip to where he can hear the static of the radio, leading him on. A barn. A  _barn_.

Distantly, he knows you deserve more - but the farmhouse is burned to the ground, and he doesn't dare ever sneaking into your tent. There are too many soldiers around.

You welcome him in - a desperate greeting of frantic kissing and tearing at clothes. Bucky doesn't have time to consider it. He doesn't care. He doesn't protest when his shirt and coat are left on and he starts to sweat; he doesn't protest at the crunchy straw prickling at his bare backside, and he certainly doesn't protest when your mouth works its way down him, and he has to bite his tongue from groaning.

Not more than ten minutes could have passed since his arrival - but you're curled up in his arms now, catching your breath as Bucky stares stupidly at the beams of the barn ceiling above. He wonders if he's been taken apart entirely - and if not, what's holding him together? Because he feels so  _strange_.

Your nose is pressed into his neck, a little sigh in his ear - Bucky's arm tightens around you.

"Um - we have furlough next month," he's suddenly saying, his voice hesitant and hoarse. "I was wonderin' if you wanna go - I mean, with me - I mean, obviously we're all goin' 'cause it's a company thing, but if you wanna - "

"Are you trying to ask me on a date, Sergeant Barnes?" your teasing voice draws his attention - he swivels his head, and grins down at your shining face.

"Guess I am, darlin.'"

"You gonna take me dancing?"

"Love to. And to dinner. I've enough of these rations."

A laugh. Your hand has worked its way up beneath his shirt, tracing on his chest and making goosebumps shudder across his body. Impulsively, (Ma had always told him how impulsive he is, and how it's gonna get him in trouble,) Bucky adds,

"I can get us a nice hotel," he blabbers. "No more of this hay. No more wood splinters in my ass. No more stale cow manure."

Another laugh - a soft one, and your lips are on his cheeks and jaw in a way that makes him feel like a million bucks. Grinning, he pulls you close, and kisses you until he's dizzy.

XI: toulouse by night

For all of Bucky's plans to woo you, the night is surprisingly lackluster. The supper had been fine, but dancing? Dull. He never would've thought dancing could be boring, to have you in his arms and not having to share, or worry about German forces or commanding officers. Maybe it's because he's only thinking of the hotel room he'd reserved before supper.

There's a thoughtful line between your brows and Bucky tugs you close, murmuring into your ear under the sound of the band, "Wanna go, sugar?"

"Yes." Your fingers tighten on his shoulder. "I do."

He fetches your coat, then winds your arm through his as you step together out into the cobblestone streets. Certainly, the night isn't flat because of  _you_  - you'd rustled up a pretty dress, found a way to do your hair up nice and even found some lipstick. It's a better look than borrowed trousers and dirt smears, and Bucky can't stop the smile curling his lips as he gazes down at you.

"I'm sorry," you say, eyes on the road. "I'm - not very good company tonight."

"Doesn't matter, sweetheart. I'd rather be with ya than the Commandos."

A little sighing laugh. Your heart isn't in it, and Bucky squeezes your hand.

"If you just wanna go back to headquarters tonight - " he starts to say, but you shake your head.

"No. I want to be with you."

That's a relief. Bucky notices a spring in his step. Then you catch his eye - you tug a chain from around your neck, one that he hadn't even noticed, within a dangling golden band hanging from the end. With a little finagling to get it off the chain, you pull the ring onto your fourth finger. Bucky is staring.

"Unmarried couples aren't allowed to share hotel rooms," you say by way of explanation. Bucky's throat is dry. He knew that, of course - he just hadn't thought of it.

"Is that - your ring?"

A pause. "Yes. My wedding ring. From… before."

You had kept your wedding ring. Well, why not? But where? He'd seen you naked, but never with any ring on a chain. Bucky isn't sure what to think, except that he'd better keep his left hand in his pocket.

The lady at the front desk of the hotel gives a smile and a nod. To her, he's just a soldier returning to visit his wife - and for some reason, the thought twists in Bucky's chest, scattering more seeds. The key is burning in his pocket, where his left-hand fingers are curled.

Up a flight of stairs, down a hallway with worn carpet and recently-dusted paintings. Is your hand shaking on his arm? Maybe he's imagining it. Doesn't matter. He shoves the key in the lock, and opens the door.

It's quaint, and clean. Bucky hangs his hat on a coat rack, and you follow suit. He locks the door.

There are no words then - either because they're not needed, or they'd be too painful to speak. Bucky fancies the latter, until he's so caught up unbuttoning your dress, tasting your lips, hot and eager and tacky from lipstick, that he stops caring. Words are for peacetime, and furlough ends tomorrow at sunset.

Bucky can count on one hand the number of times he's seen you without clothes, how many times he's kissed you, made love to you. There's still a sense of wonder as your bare skin is revealed in the yellow light of a single lamp - as your brassiere falls to the ground, as his fingers trail up silky garters. You aren't exactly gentle pulling off his belt - Bucky groans, popping buttons as he yanks his own shirt off.

He feasts between your legs again - longer and lazier this time, without the threat of discovery or attack. Bucky takes his sweet time, memorizing your taste as you sigh and writhe. The clips of your garters dig into the skin of his shoulders. He doesn't stop until you've come apart for him twice.

"Bucky," you whimper weakly as he offers you a sliver of mercy, trailing gentle, innocent kisses back up your belly to your bare breasts. "You - you're so…"

"Charming?" He glances up with a smile, pressing a quick kiss to your nipple. Another moan - your back arches slightly.

"Ah - um - I…" Your voice trails off, as Bucky sucks and nibbles the sensitive flesh of your throat, his hands gripping your hips as you buck towards him. "Talented," you finish lamely, your voice a squeak.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Of course you do."

Bucky pulls away and his heart does a funny beat to see a smile on your lips. Your eyes are glittering; dark and hazy. Thankfully, his pants have already been cast away, because with a nudge of his knees he spreads your legs further, his lips landing on yours in sweet tandem as he slips into your welcoming heat.

He groans into your mouth and your knees cradle his hips. Without the urgency of being at camp, there's less pressure - but he's still not sure how long he's gonna last.

"Bucky," you sigh, as your fingers tangle in his once-neat hair. "Bucky, Bucky…"

It urges him on, faster and faster - trying to keep a hold of himself, buried in your soft embrace as he worships every inch of you he can get his lips on. Cheeks, ears, jaw, lips. The hollow of your throat, shadowed in the light from the lamp - your breasts curving, low and sweet as merely one part of the perfect canvas of your body. Those gasps and whimpers that fill his ears and soul with everything he ever wanted - even though he doesn't know what it is that he's wanted.

There's a rushing in his ears, a distinct daze in his brain. It's only you. It's only you.

And he  _forgets_. Everything else.

Your moans are louder now; vibrating in his ear as shivers break out across his skin - there's a split second, you clenching around him, and his white-hot climax staggers his motions. Bucky tries to catch his breath, nuzzling his nose into your hairline as he collapses, and you breathe a contented sigh.

It's late. Nearing midnight.

On his side, with you tucked up in his arm, Bucky buries his nose into your hair to smell it better. Then he rolls over and turns off the lamp. Moonlight streaks into the room through lace curtains, making a pretty pattern on the rumpled bedspread.

"Bucky," you murmur, just when he's about to doze off.

"Yeah, darlin'?"

"I got orders from Colonel Phillips today."

His fingers freeze, where they were tracing circles on your bare back. A moment, and then you whisper,

"I'm going back to London."

If breaking hearts made a sound, his would have reverberated across the Channel. But Bucky doesn't move, doesn't speak for a moment. His fingers resume their course. And he does what he always does when he's feeling vulnerable. He laughs, and it's hollow.

"You gonna forget me as soon as you lay eyes on those fellows?" he teases, and your head lifts slightly. Even in the dim light, he can see your frown.

"No," you say, and he sees you swallow thickly. "No. I'm not."

His heart starts beating again. With a slow smile, Bucky traces the tip of your chin, and leans forward to kiss the tip of your nose. "It'll be alright, darling; in the end. Promise."

XII: alone

Bucky is surprised every morning to find himself in one piece. While his mind still grasps for full consciousness, he squints around the cold tent; at his legs, at his arms and hands - then he thinks,  _"I'm missing something. What am I missing?"_ , as if he'd lost a limb to a grenade or shrapnel but he can't quite remember which.

By the time he's fully awake, he remembers you.

France is a dreary place at best - at least as Bucky's seen it, and winter doesn't help. It's cold, cloudy, and not a snowflake in sight. All the trees are brown. All the mud is brown and frozen. All the fields are brown and frozen and trodden into lumps ready to twist unwary ankles. His gun is cold, his clothes are cold, and even the sparse fires don't give out much warmth.

And his socks are always wet.

Steve doesn't seem to mind - as America's shining beacon of hope, he don't mind  _any_ thing. Pinky complains a lot. Dum Dum complains a lot about Pinky.

Bucky keeps his mouth shut.

About midway through January supplies finally make it through the German lines - Colonel Phillips with another letter, and another interpreter. A man, this time, just like Colonel Phillips wanted all along. Bucky crumples the letter after reading it, and assigns the man to bunk with Falsworth and Dernier.

This new schmuck, Private Kline, stays by the warm-ish fires to search the radio waves. One ear pressed to the headset, as he twists the dials. Every so often some static is a language Bucky doesn't understand comes through - he keeps cleaning his rifle to keep his hands warm and his gun in prime condition.

A cheery trumpet wails through the radio and chatter dies around the fire. All heads turn towards Kline. He blushes easily - the trumpet is cut off.

"Aw, come on!" Junior says. "Let us have some music. Haven't heard anything decent since London."

"I - I can't - " Kline tries to protest, but one gentle young man against the Howling Commandos isn't much of a match. The radio is re-tuned, and the soft trumpet seems to fill the little glade with more warmth than the fire. There are voices to match, and Bucky feels shivers across his skin -

_You went away and my heart went with you_

_I speak your name in my every prayer…_

_If there is some other way to prove that I love you,_

_I swear I don't know..._

His eyes are burning. Everything is strangely quiet; even Dum-Dum hasn't said anything. Bucky breaks that contemplative silence with a massive sniffle, keeping his face down.

Surrounded by soldiers, France has never felt more empty.

XIII: blood and lies

The baby came into the world in a slurry of blood and fluids; staining the sheets of the bed and the aprons of the midwife. There's more dampness streaming down your face - sweat, tears, a mixture of both - and as the first warbling cries break through your soul in a shaft of light, and the midwife hurries to wipe off the pearly film and streaks of blood from the baby. Sniffling, you can't quite tear your eyes away, barely even noticing the pain still wracking your body - and when at last the bundled, squirming baby is given to you, you're positive that those are tears on your cheeks.

"My baby." It hurts to talk; your mouth and throat are dry, and your lips cracked. The little boy blinks, his wrinkled forehead pinching as his eyes move this way and that - looking for the sound of your voice, probably. A choked laugh falls from your lips, and you kiss his face, again and again, and again and again.

"He's a strong one, mum," says the little midwife, clearing away the soiled linens. "Your husband will be right proud. When you're ready, I'll weigh him and give him his shots."

Every nerve in your body wants to keep him in your arms - away from the world, away from people who would take him away if they knew his origin - safe, with you, where he won't be hurt and nothing will ever separate him from you.

"James," you whisper, and trace the tiny curve of his nose as his deep blue eyes stare. "My James." The only one you get to keep. More tears burn your eyes.

It's fortunate the army had decided to assist female volunteer service members during confinement and childbirth, because otherwise you'd be on the street. London has never been your home before; but now, there's a paid-for, tiny rickety apartment in a less-than-ideal neighborhood. But at least it has a roof. And the roof only leaks during rainstorms.

The baby cries. More than you thought he would. He wails and shrieks and moans; he flails when he's not wrapped, he gets red in the face and coughs, he refuses to be put down. How can you mind that? He's all you have.

The midwife advises gas drops. They help, a little. But not as much as your singing does.

French lullabies, German lullabies, Spanish lullabies, English and Italian and Latin and Danish - everyone you can think of, one after another for every hour of the day and night. When you sing, James is quiet, his blue eyes on your face as his little fist curled around a blanket. And your voice gets scratchy and gives out; you drink more water as he starts to fuss again, and lying in the lumpy bed with moonlight through the thin, worn curtains, you whisper to him about his daddy.

"He was so handsome," you begin raspily, stroking the baby's cheek with a finger. "So sweet and kind, always thinking about me. If - if I could've married someone again, it would have been him." A lump rises in your throat, and as they always do these days - tears come fast and hot, spilling onto your cheeks. "If you had to be anyone's, I'm glad you're his. I - I wish I could be his, too."

Even the memories of how Bucky used to look at you, back in the barns or the chicken coops or the woods or the tents - or during those last days and nights in Toulouse - he'd been so fierce with his affection, so diligent with his fondness and perfectly loving and caring in every way - in another time, you would've suspected he was in love with you. But war isn't like that. War isn't for feelings. It's for avoiding them.

More tears, and you nuzzle James' cheek as he yawns.

"One more feeding, and we need to sleep," you insist, unbuttoning the top part of your blouse. "Please, let's sleep tonight, love."

James yawns again, and suckles eagerly as you start to sing again.

The moonlight reflects from your scratched wedding band into your eye - frowning, you push it off with your thumb, and reach over without dislodging the baby to place it on a chest of drawers. No lies at night, when the world is asleep.

Your supervisor at the interpretation department didn't know your husband was killed. And you didn't dare correct him, ten months ago when the sickness from carrying the baby had become too much. It's easier pretend that Bucky is your real husband; that you're not alone in the world and uncared for. You've seen what happens to unwed girls and women that get pregnant. It's easier to lie.

But lies don't last forever.

But, you hope - neither will the war.

XIV. off the train

When Bucky steps off the train in London, he's looking for you.

He'd sent a message, straight to the office where you were working, with his arrival date and time. Everything else, he hadn't dared to include. Like how much he'd missed you, ached for you, thought of you every day and every hour, wondering who was lucky enough to be making you laugh and whether you ever thought of  _him_  -

Reunions fill the train station with happy tears, laughter, and full-on weeping. The war is over. The men are home.

Bucky hasn't slept in two days. His eyes are playing tricks on him - you aren't anywhere in sight. Everything stinks like diesel and soldiers and -

Wait.

His heart lodges in his throat and he walks briskly ahead. His pack is heavy on his shoulder, but Bucky's eyes are glued to you and your sparkling smile as the crowd is finally parting in front of him -

You're not alone.

He can barely even comprehend  _anything_  - only that your pretty, shining face is there; you're wearing a pretty blue dress and hat, and -

There's a baby in your arms.

"Bucky," you say, as he comes to a shaky halt in front of you, just drinking in the sight. Your eyes are just for him - in a besotted way he'd only seen once before - that night in Paris. You're here. You'd come.

His gaze drops to the baby. Sleeping baby. A boy. Dark curls against the white blanket, long lashes over rosy cheeks.

"I call him James," you say softly, and Bucky's eyes dart back to your smile. "I - I didn't think - "

"Darling," he interrupts, and cups your face with his hand, careful not to squish the baby. "I love you." And a kiss - a kiss that barely scrapes the surface of the last eighteen months of longing. He could go on forever and ever and ever...

"Bucky," is your whimper against his mouth and regretfully he pulls away - there will be more time for that later. The beaming smile on your face makes him grin and Bucky carefully strokes the baby's dark curls. "Do you mind?" you ask next, a little anxiously.

"Just that ya went ahead and had a baby without me," Bucky teases lightly. "Would've liked to participate more."

You laugh - he had almost forgotten the sound, so rare it was. Keeping baby James secure in one arm, you reach out with your other hand to smooth down the dirtied, frayed front of Bucky's jacket. He stands a little straighter.

"What I was trying to say earlier," you tell him with a wry smile, lips still pink from his kiss. "I thought I couldn't even have a baby.  _Thank you_."

"The privilege is mine, sweetheart." Bucky squeezes your upper arms gently. There are a thousand more things to say - but now, just one or two will suffice. There will be time. "Will ya marry me?" he asks abruptly.

A slow, soft smile. "Of course."

"Good. Three tickets to New York, whatddya say? If we go by sea, the captain can do the honors for us."

Biting your lip to hide a smile, your eyes are glittering. "Won't your mother mind? I mean - about all this."

"Now that she has a grandson? Nah."

Another laugh. The baby starts to squirm, and you press your lips together. Bucky chortles, his heart fuller than he had ever imagined - even on the good days. "Let's go find ya a ring," he says.

XV: three by boat

The surge and drop of the steam-turbine ship with the waves of the sea squeezes Bucky's guts something awful. But he's not thinking much about that; there are more important things. Like the swell and thumps of his heartbeat, as his left hand dangles inside the bassinet squeezed in between the tiny bed and the yellow wall of the cabin, where he son is sleeping peacefully. Liking the swaying of sailing, probably. At least one of them is.

Bucky's fingertips trace the little lace cap, and brush against the plump cheeks squished against the mattress. He smiles to himself, all sprawled out on his back on the bed with you curled up on his other side. The gold band on his fourth finger reflects in the shaky, flickering light on the ceiling. Then his fingers glide to touch the curled-up fist, so small compared to his - and he brushes his son's knuckles as you shift, your silky nightgown sticking to Bucky's bare chest.

"When he was new," you say softly, propping your chin on his shoulder. "He would cry sometimes for no reason. I...I sometimes wondered if he was missing you. Worrying about you, as much as I was."

Bucky doesn't reply for a moment. The ship lifts and drops again with the waves of the sea, and his stomach, too - the room tilts, and straightens, and he lets out a long breath.

"I thought 'bout ya every day," he whispers back. Drawing his hand away from the bassinet, he moves to his side to face you all the better - glowing in the light, a small smile on your much-kissed lips. Bucky grins back, and this time his wandering fingers find the lace strap on your shoulder and tug down. He dips his head, peppering kissing along the smooth skin of your collarbone and throat, and he hears your intake of shaky breath. His hand trails lower, to your waist, to your hips. Your fingers are carding through his hair - not gently - and he groans a little roughly as goosebumps break out across his skin.

"Bucky…" The softest moan, the sweetest sigh.

"I'm here, sweetheart. I ain't goin' nowhere now." His kisses move up your neck, across your jaw, to your lips - his tongue slips between and he drinks your ever essence as your knee hooks up over his. Bucky pulls back slightly, a grin on his face that he knows has got to be dopey, and with a little chortle says, " _Mrs. Barnes._ "

Your soft giggle warms his soul. Even half-hidden in shadows from the dim light, Bucky doesn't see a single line of despair or sadness in your face. It's a beautiful sight - his favorite. His heart leaps from his chest, and he dives back in for another kiss.

The baby sleeps.

The silky nightgown slips over your curves, and Bucky tugs it from your feet. You push him onto his back, eyes blazing something fiery and fierce that makes his throat close over as he shudders at your touch. Over his hips, and your lips trail down his bare chest. It's getting hard to breathe - sweat makes the cheap sheets stick to his skin, and he grips your thighs as you straighten, gloriously backlight with golden and absolutely  _stunning_  - Bucky blinks several times, and nearly chokes from the sensation as you mount him, all slow and taking your time.

Riding with the waves - back and forth - surging and pulling and grinding and his brain stops working, he knows it - but he drinks in the sight above him; your parted lips as your lashes flutter shut, the few strands of hair sticking out from your coiffe. His hands find your waist, trace those silvery stretch marks that he wishes he could've seen filled -

Your cry pierces his soul. His heart is still going wild and fast, and when you've started to sigh with contentment, Bucky grasps you around the waist to toss you back onto the cot. Cool air hits his sticky back as he climbs between your legs, finding your lips and devouring your taste as if it can drive the stink of gunpowder and blood out of his mouth.

His muscles are quaking. Seizing. He's whiting out - but then he chokes, and he feels your hands on his face, bringing him back.

"Bucky."

"I'm here." His mouth is dry, and he forces up some spit to swallow down. Blinking his eyes open, he gazes down at you - still golden, a little pinched frown between your brows as you study his expression in a way that tells him that his soul is completely bare to you.

And that's the way he wants it.

The release had taken more out of him than he expects. Suddenly exhausted, he falls back on his side, taking deep, steady breaths as he pulls you close. Your nose is in his shoulder, and little kisses follow.

It's gonna be okay.

He drifts off as his heartbeat slows. The baby starts to squirm, and you leave his embrace to nurse little James. Bucky tries to rouse himself to help - but everything feels heavy and tired. He can't even remember he slept longer than a cat nap. A few minutes later, the baby is fast asleep again, and you lay him back into the bassinet. Back into Bucky's arms. Where you should be. This time he doesn't resist slumber.

It's gonna be okay.


End file.
